Night Changes
by OceansAria
Summary: On Sam's graduation night, he tells Dean his plans for the future - much to the older Winchester's agony.


Dean had dropped out for a lotta reasons—the main one being he knew wasn't going anywhere in life. College? Hell no. Sensible job with a sensible pay? Even bigger hell to the friggin' no. But Sam, shoot, that kid was some kinda Einstein or Hawking. 4.7 GPA, straight A's since day _uno_.

And now his little bro was gonna walk the stage.

That day in June, it was hotter than the inside of a stone pizza oven and the breeze stuck to you more than it relieved. The sun was dwindling down to a sliver over the high top pines, casting the long type of shadows on the football field that still sent a zing! of caution up Dean's spine. He moseyed in with the crowd of moms, dads, little brothers and big sisters. Laughter mingled with complaints of the heat, their programs flapping happily in their tanned hands to keep a slick sheen from their foreheads. Didn't help much, he thought. He'd discarded his leather jacket in the Impala—John let him drive it more and more these days, and though he would've usually been over the hill with joy, he still felt that edge of anger leftover from their argument before he left. John had promised to be there for Sam's graduation. Promised right to little (well, not so much anymore) Sammy's face. But both boys knew promises that came from John Winchester's lips were about as sturdy as a rickety wooden bridge in an Indiana Jones flick. Somehow, it would break.

Rolling up the sleeves of his over shirt, Dean hiked up the bleacher steps till about midway, scooted in next to a pretty blonde a few years his junior, and gave her a not-so-conscpicous casual wink and a "Hi."

They chatted. He got her number, promised to call. Unlike John, he would act upon that, but only once. They were leaving town the day after tomorrow. Like John, however, he hated sticking around one place for any longer than a couple months. Living a roadie life had gotten into his veins when he was a youngin', and he could feel the itch to take that Impala up the highway and hit another dusty town, bunk in another shitty hotel, and another case. He hadn't had one in weeks.

Trumpets sang the arrival of the graduates and the beginning of the ceremonies. All in the bleachers rose in unison, though Dean, still distracted with his new catch, stood last. He forgot about the girl and set his wandering eyes to the crowd of seniors, finding Sammy not at the back but the front, the exact opposite where he should be.

Dean raised his hand to wave, muttering, "Son of a bitch made valedictorian and didn't say a damn word."

Sam smiled shortly, waving back even quicker.

"That's your little brother?" The girl questioned in his ear, leaning on his arm.

Dean gently shook free. "Yeah. You know him?"

"My friend Myriah dated him. Said he was a _great_ kisser."

 _Sammy has game with the ladies? No way._ Chuckling it off, he remained silent as the graduates were seated, the principal and the superintendent spoke their boring-ass speeches, and then it was Sammy, the valedictorian's, turn up at the podium.

Dean sat forward, tuning his ear to his little brother's every word as Sam cleared his throat, shuffled his cards, and began. Rock solid confidence oozed from the younger Winchester like tree sap from the surrounding pines.

"Today, we leave behind our adolescence and step out from behind our parents into reality. We leave behind these halls—which nearly scrape the top of my head—" A laugh from the crowd, "-and head out for possibilities. Many of us are going to college. Some, to the armed forces. Some, straight into the work force. None better than the other, or less important. We have all strived, tooth and nail, to get here, to this day and to this moment. I encourage you all, even the ones I may have never spoken to, to never forget one another. To somehow, someway, stay in touch. Not constantly, but enough. This is our chunk of the new generation. We are the future. We are _our_ future, and I believe that relationships, friendships, _families_ , are what build humanity. Not money or education. Family. It doesn't start or end in blood. So go out into the world. Conquer it. Make new bonds. But don't forget each other."

Applause. Rupturing applause. People stood and hollered, whooped and whistled, even some yelled, "Yeah, Sam!"

Dean, startled to his seat, simply clapped. The smile on his face curled quickly and proudly into a grin, and his only response to the speech was a whisper. He sucked back in the snot that threatened to trickle from his nose, and the tear from his eye.

"Good job, Sammy."

* * *

He waited for Sam by the Impala, watching more eagerly than he thought he could be, finding that dark head bouncing above the crowd and in his direction in the growing evening light.

"Dean," Sam laughed, short and curious. His friends drifted away, promises of tomorrow and next week events on their tongues. "What're you doin' here? Where's Dad?"

Dean kept the smile firm on his face. "Dad was busy. But I make a pretty good substitute, right?"

"Figures," Sam muttered. He fiddled with his cap. "Shoulda known, I guess."

"He was takin' care of a nest upstate, Sammy. C'mon, don't be so hard on the guy."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I always go too easy on him."

Dean didn't say more, neither did. They slid in the front seat and spurred for their temporary home.

* * *

The game was on the TV, the announcers rambling away, just as Dean had planned for it to be upon their return to the drafty motel room. Cracked a couple of beers open, kicked their shoes off, and chatted and chilled for a while. Dean would look back on that night and remember Sam's blue cap and gown strewn on that ragged couch. A snapshot to remember the distraught to come.

An hour into the game, Sam spoke up about something other than the scores or getting another drink.

"Dean?"

"What?"

"I've got something important to talk to you about."

"Can't it wait?"

"I've put it off before."

"Fine," Dean huffed, muting the TV. He turned, lips pursed, and set his elbows on his knees to make sure he gave off the _I'm listening_ aura. "Whatcha wanna talk about?"

Sam rubbed his hands together, back and forth, back and forth, warm as a bonfire by the time he speaks again.

"Dean, I got into Stanford."

Dean's confidence, that easy smile, faltered. Fell off the cliff and into the canyon and exploded.

"You, _what?_ "

"Full ride," Sam went on, fast and higher than his usual tone. He wouldn't quite meet his older brother's stern gaze. "Passed with flying colors. I'm scheduled to ship out August 10th."

"Wait. Hold your horses for a second there, Sammy. You said you were going _where_ , _when_? Why?"

"Dean," impatient, Sam got up and crossed to the mini-fridge and popped the top on another Bud Light. "I'm going to college. I'm going to get my law degree and I'm getting the hell out of this life."

"Why would you want that?" Stupid question. Anyone in the life kinda wants out of it. Wishes they were ignorant like the majority, wishes they could go back to normality.

"Because I never wanted this, Dean. I never wanted to move around constantly, go to a hundred different schools, never get to keep a girlfriend or even a buddy. I want to get a degree, I want to get a job, and I want to settle down."

Dean nearly vomited. He could feel the three beers he'd down slosh unsteadily in his gut.

"Look, Sammy, I know we ain't ever had an apple pie life. I know it ain't always been smiley faces and happy times, but—"

"But what? Stick around, ride it out? Hope it gets better? Dean, we've been doin' that for _years_."

"Why do you need to go to college, Sam?" Not Sammy, not this time. His voice hard, his tone hurting and gruff and scratchy because he knew that once Sam Winchester got his mind set on something, it took mountain moving will to get him off that track.

"I just told you."

"Tell me why, Sam." Dean waved his hand. "Wait, have you even told Dad yet?"

"I planned on tellin' him tonight," Sam sighed. He rubbed his hands over his face, one palm damp from the beer. "I wanted to tell you two together. But Dad's never here and—"

"Fine, fine. Just tell me why you feel the need to abandon us, Sam."

"I'm not _abandoning_ you!"

"That is abandoning me!" _Don't leave me, Sammy,_ he wanted to scream. "That is abandoning us! Ooh, you better be glad Dad isn't here or he would rip your spleen out right now."

"Dad can't control me," Sam mumbled.

"What?"

Sam raised his voice, "Dad can't control me. Not anymore. I'm not like you, Dean. I haven't ever wanted to follow Dad like you. I don't care if he hates me forever after this."

"That's your _father_ , Sam. You should care."

"I don't."

"Sam—" Breaking. Dean could feel himself breaking in half on the inside. "Sammy, don't do this, man. Please."

Sam's eyebrows shot up and twisted, perplexed by his older brother's impeding emotional breakdown. Dean showed little to no intense emotion except for certain times when their mother was brought up. Dean was rock-hard, meant to lean on, meant to look upon other's sorrows and comfort or pass by. But having these feelings of his own?

"Dean."

"Sammy. You get out there, in the world, in freakin' _California_ and I can't—" his voice cracked and he started over. "I can't look after you."

"I don't expect or want you to be my bodyguard for the rest of my life, Dean."

"It's my—" _It's my job,_ he almost said. "Sammy," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't do this. Don't go off to Stanford. It won't be what you think it is."

"So you want me to stay behind with you? Work more cases? Do nothing but the same old, same old?"

"Hey, I'm sure there're some sons of bitches out there we ain't encountered yet."

"Dean—" Sam barked a laugh. "I get it, you wanna protect me or whatever, but you can't. I'm a grown man now. I accepted their offer a long time ago. I've made my choice and I'm sticking to it."

Dean stood, stomped past, crashed on the bed, and turned his back on his brother.

Sam ventured, "Dean?"

"What the hell do you want now?"

"N-Nothing," Sam grabbed his jacket and went for the door. A party had just started at a friend's and he wasn't gonna miss it. If their dad was back by morning, they'd be outta town and well towards the next state by afternoon. "I'll be back later."

"Sure you don't wanna jack my car and ride off to Stanford now?" Dean taunted.

God, it hurt. Every heartbeat _stung._ He wanted to die. What was the point of making sure Sam was close all these years, keeping to his responsibilities, his job, saving his bro's ass over and over just for that same little brother to skip out the door without a backwards glance?

Sam replied low, "I'm sure."

Never would he ever tell Sam that he cried. Bawled his pretty little green-gold eyes out on those musty, lilac and cigarette scented pillow until his lungs were robbed of a single breath and his lips and eyes were swollen. Finally, there was nothing left but pumping organs and flesh, worn from the day. He pushed himself—feeling a hundred, a _thousand_ pounds heavier, his throat torn apart—and went to the bathroom to wash his face.

 _I'm goin' to bed and I'm gettin' some shut-eye and maybe all this hell will be a damn nightmare come tomorrow._

He did go to bed, but he didn't fall asleep. He thought about chugging some Jack Daniels, maybe some Fireball at that, but he laid still.

Sam returned after one. He was too tipsy to check if Dean was awake—he was—and collapsed onto his own bed, passing out almost immediately.

Never would he ever tell Sam that he cried, or that he stayed wide-eyed and half bushy-tailed all night, his hurting heart throbbing, and his eyes never leaving his little brother's sleeping face.

"Don't leave me, Sam."

 _Please don't leave me, Sammy. Please._

* * *

Three days and seventeen hours after, the three Winchester men were squatting in an old cabin in rural Indiana. Dinner—warmed over turkey chili and hard yeast rolls—was over, and they dragged the only pieces of furniture they could scavenge to the living room, grabbed some scotch, and started a fire.

"Dad," Sam said.

Dean knew then. He'd been on his toes, anticipating, knowing that this conversation could've started the minute Sam's ass touched the worn leather seats of the Impala when their dad came back and they shagged on out of town. "Sam," counteracted Dean, eyes full of warning and pleading. "Not right now."

"What 'not right now'?" John sat back in his chair, his jacket hooked across the back.

Sam shot Dean a deadly look. "I need to talk to you about something, Dad. I wanted to the other night after graduation, but . . ." A rueful smirk to punctuate the end.

"Sammy," John started his apology. "Told you before, son. 'M sorry about that."

"I know, Dad, I know." Sam placated. Unlike when he told the whole spiel to Dean, he looked his father dead in the eyes and told him straight out, no beating around the bush: "I got accepted to Stanford, full ride. I'm going to college and neither of you can stop me."

Dean drew in a breath and finished his scotch.

The minute his father replied, his voice pissed as all get out and fists clenching his own glass of amber, Dean knew it was gonna be one long night.

* * *

He hadn't slept for more than half an hour in five days—since Sam first told him about Stanford, all through the night after Sam and John's fight leading up to Sam hightailing it to Bobby's, and now, as he drove to Bobby's to retrieve his brother.

Dean already knew what he was gonna say to Sam. First, he'd punch him. Split that rosy cheek of his open and let him know how he really felt about Sam thinking he was grown-up enough to go when and where he pleased. Then, he'd hug the daylights out of Sam, lock him in the Impala, and take him on the case he'd found for them. Sam would _know_ Stanford wasn't for him. Sam was smart. He would see that college wasn't for hunters. Wasn't like there was a club for them like Glee Club—where are the weirdos and hunter offsprings that knew about the creatures of the shadows and dark corners gathered to blab their greatest kills.

But Sam wasn't at Bobby Singer's house. Bobby gave the info willingly, his middle-aged face weary and sad for he knew of the heartbreak shredding Dean from the inside out.

"He stayed for a night, said he needed to go into town, and was gone," explained Bobby at his front door. "Sorry, son. Guess I trusted those big hazel eyes too much."

"Don't we all," Dean muttered. He flipped his keys in his palm as he bid Bobby goodbye, to which the old man replied,

"If you find your brother, Dean, don't hurt him. He needs you. I know that boy is fonder of you than John, and one thing he can't lose is his big brother right now."

"What if Sam don't want to be found, Bobby?"

"Then let him go on his way," Bobby shrugged. "He's grown. If he wants to be apart of the family again, he'll come 'round eventually."

So Dean searched the nearest towns, then the furthest, then sent out out a call to all hunters, all the friends he had, and put a target on Sammy's back.

But Sammy as Dean knew him was long gone. Already halfway to Cali, to his new life. He'd hot-wired a car in Bobby's lot, loaded up on goods and gas in town, and took off.

After three months, John called Dean one day. They'd been on separate roads and separate cases since that night. It was August 11th, the first day of classes.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I see him. He's walkin' up the steps of the library here on campus."

Dean could feel his tongue dry to sandpaper. Struggling, he said, "You're gonna talk to him, right?"

"No, I don't think so."

"W-Why not?" Anger filled the chasm in his chest.

"'Cause he doesn't _want_ to talk to me, Dean."

"How would you know?"

"I'm his father. I know Sam."

 _No, you don't. Not at all like I do._

Dean wouldn't have ever dared to give his father orders, but this was Sammy.

"Dad, talk to him."

"Excuse me?"

"Talk to him, please. He needs you. He needs us." _He needs me._  
"Sure didn't act like it," John growled, the rumblings of anger sparking his tone. "He made his choice, Dean. Said so himself. I'll check up on him every once in a while."

"But you won't talk to him? Like you're a civil human being?" Challenging his dad again wasn't any easier to swallow than the first time.

A sigh. Rustles. "I'll talk to you later, Dean."

Click _._

One thing Dean noticed, that he _hated_ he noticed, was his father only ever called him by his name, whereas Bobby continuously called he and Sam 'son'. It rubbed him the wrong way in all sorts of places.

Never would he'd ever tell Sam that he cried, that he'd lain awake in that motel, or that he drove all the way out to Cali from Maine, all through the night, to get a glimpse of his brother's face going to class, surrounded by friends.

Never would he ever tell Sammy that he had not one but two guardian angels, the more frequent of the two sliding up in a coal black, thundering '67 Impala that hid behind the trees for a full day until the driver was sure Sam was okay, that he was healthy and happy, before rolling back into the highway, into reality, headed for another case.

Dean didn't speak to Sam for two years.

But he saw his Sammy's face once a month.


End file.
